Pardon Me
by hatondog
Summary: Mycroft is being a good big brother by arranging a pardon for Sherlock's killing of Charles Augustus Magnussen. But there's a condition: Sherlock has to meet the Queen for the pardon to take effect. Can he behave himself with royalty? Or will he become too absorbed in stopping a new tide of illegal drugs from swamping London to bother? Post TAB.
1. Chapter 1

**PARDON ME**

Chapter 1.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, his voice tinged with threat.

"Mycroft," responded Sherlock, without the slightest hint of concern.

Sherlock was reclining in his armchair before a crackling fire, violin laying across his lap. The very picture of insouciance, a sign reading 'bugger off' couldn't have signaled his disregard for Mycroft's presence any more clearly. Across the room in the doorway, Mycroft appeared to be similarly unaffected by the disagreement with his younger brother. Only a slight whitening of his knuckles on the carved handle of the umbrella resting at his side hinted at his annoyance.

"May I remind you, Sherlock, that it was you who suggested that I…what was your phrase?...oh, yes, 'be a good big brother' by getting you a pardon?" Mycroft grimaced. "Now that I have done so, I strongly suggest that you cooperate in the process lest you find yourself facing the charges that I have so diligently sought to dispose of on your behalf."

"I'm perfectly willing to cooperate with a pardon, Mycroft. It's the rest of it I have no intention of engaging in." Sherlock said.

"The 'rest of it', as you so blithely put it, is not optional. If you want to spend the rest of your life outside of a prison cell, you'll stop this nonsense now. Plans must be made, people must be notified. And you need to behave yourself."

Sherlock simply shrugged and closed his eyes, fingers steepling underneath his chin. Mycroft huffed and crossed the room to drop into the opposite armchair. He smiled slightly at the scowl creasing Sherlock's face. The armchair was the previous domain of his former flatmate, John Watson. To Sherlock's mind, the chair would always belong to John, only being occupied in his absence by the most worthy of other people. So far, just Mrs. Hudson had qualified for that honor. Mycroft certainly did not.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"I am not going to be trotted out like some prize show dog for your cronies just so you can score points, Mycroft. Pomp, circumstance and I don't mix." Sherlock snatched up the paper on his lap. "I will sign this, and I will even hand it over in person if necessary, but I will not play dress up with the aristocracy. That is not going to happen, so you better find another way to make this pardon work, or Mummy will be very angry."

"She will be far angrier if she has to visit you behind bars, Sherlock. Have you forgotten that you murdered a man in cold blood and before witnesses? You are in no position to negotiate."

"That won't stop him from trying," chimed in John, who'd just arrived at the door. Sherlock smiled. "What's that?" John asked.

"Mycroft's inadequate attempt to rescue me from incarceration or exile," Sherlock responded, holding out the paper to John.

"APPLICATION FOR ROYAL PREROGATIVE OF MERCY" was typed in bold lettering across the top. "Sherlock Holmes" was typed in small letters below the heading. John scanned the sheet, his eyebrows rising as he read.

"It says here that you're receiving a pardon, but only on entry of a conviction for crimes against the Commonwealth," John said. Sherlock and Mycroft nodded.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "One of the very few requisites for a pardon from the monarchy is that it is reserved for convictions. But unlike judicial pardons, no trial or other public affair is necessary to the process. Indeed, it is not even mandatory that the crime pardoned be identified."

"That's particularly handy when the Commonwealth itself has covered up the crime," Sherlock added.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, that is a problem. We can hardly make it known that Sherlock murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen when the public has been given to believe that he expired of a heart attack," he agreed.

"He didn't have a heart," said John darkly.

While he had been shocked to his core when Sherlock shot Magnussen through the head on Christmas Day, he didn't regret the man's loss. Magnussen had been a cold, vicious predator who didn't hesitate to use information gathered through his position as a newspaper editor to destroy lives. When he had turned his focus to John and Mary to leverage their relationship with Sherlock to get to Mycroft, he'd crossed a line that John wasn't willing to ignore. Still, it was Sherlock, not John, who had stepped up to that line to put an end to Magnussen's intelligence vault, his own brain. And in so doing, put his own life at risk. That, John did regret.

He returned his attention to the paper. "It's also effective on signature by…wait, is this right?" John sputtered.

"Yes, it seems that my dear brother is leaving no stone unturned in his effort to keep me available to do his legwork for him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Merely a favor from an old friend," he said.

"The _Queen_?" John yelped.

Sherlock snorted. "Don't let him fool you. Mycroft doesn't have any friends, so he has to make the most of the one relationship he can exploit."

"Nonsense," snapped Mycroft. "There have been quite a few calls for greater transparency in granting of Royal Prerogatives of late. They are almost always signed by the Lord Chancellor. But since they are also rare, it's a perfect opportunity for him to make a show of ceding to pressure. Hence, his willingness to make records supporting their grant public. We can't have that."

"No, we can't have that," said Sherlock mockingly. Mycroft ignored him.

"No one, however, would have the gall to question Her Majesty's decision to pardon anyone. Hence, the necessity of her involvement in this matter."

John gaped for a moment, then a grin crept across his face. He looked at Sherlock. "You said you'd turn this over in person," he said, waving the application paper. "That means…".

"Just so," said Mycroft sourly. "My little brother will have to meet the Queen. And that, I'm afraid, necessitates some degree of ceremony, which he's being very unreasonable about."

"Oh, my God," John gasped, laughing. "Please, please tell me I can come watch. Hell, I'll buy a ticket if necessary."

Mycroft frowned, clearly not sharing in John's glee. Sherlock laughed.

"No need, John. There won't be a meeting. I refuse to be the star of Mycroft's little dog and pony show."

"But if an in-person meeting is required…" John began.

"It is," affirmed Mycroft.

"Then you _have_ to go," John finished.

"No," said Sherlock flatly.

Just as Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, John stepped forward, dropping the application for prerogative onto Sherlock's lap.

"Yes," he said. "That is your ticket to freedom, Sherlock. And I don't care if you have to dress up in a clown suit and dance with the devil to get it, you _will_ do it." Sherlock made to argue, but John cut him off. "I won't have my daughter growing up without her godfather. That's not up for discussion."

Sherlock closed his mouth and goggled at John. Mycroft chuckled.

"He has you there, brother mine." Mycroft stood and gathered up his things. "So, I will call you with the date and time. And, Sherlock, get a morning suit together for the meeting. The one you wore to John's wedding could do nicely."

Sherlock just blinked at John. "You want _me_ to be the godfather?" he said incredulously.

"Yes, we've been through this before, Sherlock. When I asked you to be my best man. You, me, best friends, remember? Of course we want you to be her godfather." John smiled.

"Well, I'm so glad that _that's_ decided," said Mycroft snidely. "I'll be off now."

Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it then glared at Mycroft. "Are you still here?" he demanded. Sighing, Mycroft left the flat. John took his place in the armchair opposite Sherlock.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you really do have to go through with it. Whatever Mycroft says to do, do it." Sherlock began to scowl. "No, really. It's this or the Eastern European mission, yeah?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Right then. I'll see if I can rustle up the wedding finery again. Because I _am_ coming with you so we both better look sharp." John smirked.

Sherlock snorted, then sank down in his chair and pouted.

* * *

Deep in the bowels of a hospital, a man wearing the uniform of a commercial cleaning service emptied several small bags marked "Waste" into a larger black rubbish bag mounted on a cart. He tied the larger bag closed and moved the cart toward a nearby elevator.

The elevator dinged as it arrived at the garage level of the building. As the man stepped through the elevator doors with his cart, a van pulled up and two men hopped out. After scanning the area for bystanders, they pulled the bag from the cart and loaded it into the van. One of the men nodded toward a security camera, which was focused on the adjacent aisle. He drew out a gun and shot the camera expertly, blowing out its lens. The he turned and shot the uniformed man in the head.

The van drove away as the cart rolled across the garage, coming to rest against a parked Mercedes, whose motion alarm began to wail.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

A dark haired woman in a white lab coat was seated at a bench, small partially filled vials filling a large tray beside her. She carefully pipetted liquid from each vial to a large sterile container.

She rolled her shoulders and glanced discreetly around her. All together, there were nearly a dozen people engaged in the same tedious task. Ordinarily, there would be one more, but a friend of the woman had come down ill.

She wondered about her friend. Despite the lab coats and clean surroundings, most people working in the room were homeless. Like her, they had been enticed off the streets with a promise of warm shelter from the cold and food.

Although her friend was the only person working at the lab who had a regular job and a place to live, he seemed to prefer the lab to his lodgings. A quiet, gentle man named Chris Cullen with some mental challenges, he was on the janitorial staff of a local research hospital. He saved up parts of his lunch from the cafeteria for her, presenting the bags like flowers. The bits of sandwiches and fruit gave her far more pleasure than any vase of roses could.

In the past week, Chris had unusually begun to question the nature of the lab's work. He was responsible for gathering the used vials from the hospital where he worked.

Rather than empty the hospital's small bins of used vials into waste disposal skips, he put their contents instead into bags which were brought to the lab. The skips were filled with bags containing other rubbish. He'd been told that the vials were being taken for research purposes. Given his relatively low understanding of all things medical, that explanation had sufficed for quite a while. Over time, however, the surreptitious way bags were moved to vans in the hospital garage began to weigh on him.

"I don't think what they're doing is right," he'd whispered one night the week before to the woman. "My mother used to say that if something looked wrong, it probably was. I think taking the bottles from the hospital may be wrong. What do you think?" he'd asked beseechingly.

The woman had only shaken her head warningly, shushing him. The lab supervisor was looking their direction with a frown.

"This is a good thing," she hissed. "Don't ruin it for everyone."

Remembering that conversation now, the woman felt a strong sense of unease. Chris had failed to show up at the lab for two nights running. She was desperately worried for him, but could not summon the courage to breach the well-enforced silence between the workers and their supervisor to ask after him. But she couldn't suppress the fears that whispered through her brain.

What if Chris had been right? Were they all in danger? Had something happened to him? As these thoughts flitted through her brain, her hands continued their movement of vials from tray to container to bag. She turned slightly to glance again at the door and her hands stilled. The supervisor was glaring at her. Her stomach rolled.

* * *

"No," came Sherlock's voice behind the door of 221B. A piteous squeak was heard in response. John smiled, leaning against the doorframe to eavesdrop.

"No," said Sherlock again. This time the answer given him was barely audible.

"And…nope," Sherlock drawled, popping out his 'p'. Only a hiccup could be heard in response. John sighed and opened the door to help rescue whatever poor soul was on the receiving end of Sherlock's recalcitrance.

As he'd expected, Sherlock was seated in his usual armchair. His legs were crossed and his face was set in a smirk. John looked right to see the victim standing next to the sofa.

He was a small, greyish man, overdressed for the day in a formal suit and bow tie. He was holding a black suit and cummerbund out. A pile of similar choices rested on the coffee table and sofa. John blew out air as he realized that the man must be a stylist, probably sent by Mycroft to prepare Sherlock for his big day with the Queen.

The man's face was crumpling but, overall, John was impressed that he was still on his feet. Clearly, he was in no way prepared for the onslaught of contempt that Sherlock could unleash on anyone deluded enough to tell him how to dress or what to do. He had no idea who John was, but still looked toward him as a beacon of hope.

"Hello," he said shakily. "I'm Peter Lutton."

"John Watson," John nodded. The man's face brightened.

"Oh, Dr. Watson! I should have recognized you. I read your blog. It's just wonderful," the man beamed.

"Er, thank you," John answered. "Are you here to…?" he left Lutton an opening to explain.

The little man drew himself up. John was reminded of a puffer fish and had to force down a laugh.

"I am here to prepare Mr. Holmes for his audience with Her Majesty. I specialize in providing instruction and style advice for persons meeting with royalty." He leaned in a bit toward John. "It's so important that protocol be followed, you know. All of the details and customs must be observed or, or…" the man stuttered as Sherlock interrupted.

"The sun will stop turning and the world will burn," he said sardonically.

"Sherlock, stop crucifying this poor man," John chided. The behavior he'd witnessed had been relatively mild, but John could imagine the abuse Sherlock must have heaped on the stylist to bring him to tears. "He's right, there's probably lots of things about meeting royalty you don't know-".

"Or care about," Sherlock muttered.

"But should," finished John. "Do I need to remind you that this is your life at stake here?"

"Hardly," Sherlock answered. "If my life depends on which knee I go down on before her holiness…".

" _Highness,_ " hissed Lutton, scandalized. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Or even that I get down on bended knee at all, I may as well shoot myself now."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, you promised. And I'm holding you to that so..." John stepped over to the pile of clothes, picking up two suits from the top. "Pick one."

"No." Sherlock said.

"Do it, or I call your mother." John's voice fell into his Captain Watson register, leaving no doubt that he would follow through on his threat.

Sherlock adopted a swallowed-a-lemon expression but sighed and waved a hand langorously toward the suit in John's left hand. "That one," he said grumpily.

"I'm thrilled, Sherlock, really," John said sarcastically, then handed the suit to Lutton.

"Oh, thank you so much, Dr. Watson," he effused. Turning to Sherlock, he said, "I'll have this tailored to your specifications within days, sir. Shall I come back on Thursday?"

"Come back?" huffed Sherlock. "I never agreed-".

"Yes," John cut him off. He put a hand on Lutton's shoulder and guided him to the door. "That will be fine, Mr. Lutton. I suggest you leave now, though. He gets fussy when he hasn't had his nap."

Sherlock gave him a look of pure menace, but whatever he planned to say in response to John's jibe was interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

"Lestrade?" he snapped into it. After listening for a few seconds, a broad smile broke out over Sherlock's face. " _A murder,_ " he mouthed toward John. Lutton grew pale and scuttled out the door, leaving behind his collection of rejected suits. John pointed at them and rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who just shrugged.

The call ended and Sherlock leapt from his chair to gather up his coat and scarf. "Barely a six, John, but better than waiting here for Mycroft to inflict some other form of housebreaking on me. Let's go."

"I just got here," John protested. "It's freezing out and I was hoping for some tea." He knew it was hopeless, though, so was already following Sherlock out the door as he spoke.

"Cleaner at a hospital found in the parking garage. So far, so ordinary. But this cleaner was anything but ordinary." They left the building and Sherlock stepped to the curb to hail a cab. "He was developmentally disabled, IQ of 85. Not exactly a criminal mastermind."

"So?" asked John, sliding into the back seat of the cab which, as always, seemed to magically appear as soon as Sherlock required one.

"They found drugs in a bag in his locker. All in vials, most nearly empty. But collectively worth 50,000 pounds."

"He was stealing drugs from the hospital," John said. "Not that uncommon, really. Granted, that's a large quantity, but it's not impossible for someone to smuggle out that much in dribs and drabs. Happens a lot with narcotics, sadly."

"But these weren't narcotics, John," Sherlock said. "They were for treating cancer, chemotherapy agents and the like. Not exactly street drugs, nothing you could easily peddle. Selling them would take a sophisticated operation, not the kind of thing within reach of our victim."

"Maybe he didn't know what he was involved in. Got suckered into taking the drugs, or blackmailed?" John mulled.

"Or maybe he did know what he was involved in," Sherlock answered. He turned his phone toward John so he could see its screen. On it was a photo of a note. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the words were few enough to be quickly deciphered. It read: 'They use them. Taking this. Help."

"He left a note?" asked John.

"He left more than that," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"More precisely, he _didn't_ leave something that should have been there." The cab pulled up at the entrance of a hospital parking garage. Police cars littered the curb. Sherlock was out of the cab before it had come to a complete halt.

John sighed, paid the cab fare, and followed. There were times when Sherlock's devotion to being enigmatic was more trying than others, and this was such a time. It had already been a long day and John had yet to have tea. Sometimes, he just wanted a straight answer. Sadly, one didn't seem to be on offer. With Scotland Yard in attendance, Sherlock would be relishing his opportunity to withhold information, the better to make for a dramatic reveal. John trudged up to Sherlock and Lestrade, who were already deep in conversation.

"We searched his locker and found this," Lestrade held out a mobile phone. Sherlock reached for it.

"Oi! Gloves on," shouted Philip Anderson, the forensics examiner on site. Anderson had suffered from a bad case of hero worship for Sherlock for a time, but had seemingly recovered.

"It hardly matters," Sherlock said disparagingly. "You've already ruined the evidence."

Anderson colored, but didn't argue. It was true.

"Anderson tried to unlock it and failed, thereby costing us any access to its contents," agreed Lestrade. "Why in the hell…oh, never mind. It doesn't matter now." He looked resigned.

Sherlock just smiled. "Yes, because there aren't any fingerprints on hand to open the phone once some idiot has locked it down by exceeding the number of allowed attempts at a password, is there? Good work, Anderson, as always."

"Yeah, that's the weird part," Lestrade responded. "No fingertips to use." He led Sherlock over to the body of Christopher, the janitorial attendant. His fingers were missing.

Sherlock bent to examine the body, muttering something to himself which sounded disturbingly like 'inspired'. He was patting down the man's pockets when a black Jaguar pulled up to the crime scene.

"Christ," breathed John, spotting the car. "Sherlock," he said. No answer. "Sherlock," John repeated sharply.

"What?" snapped Sherlock, turning. He caught sight of Mycroft's assistant striding toward them. Anthea, or whatever her name really was, looked apologetic but determined. She stopped in front of Sherlock, not sparing a glance for the dead man at his side.

"Mr. Holmes, you're needed," she said.

"Yes, that's why I'm here," Sherlock responded calmly. He turned to Lestrade. "No video footage of the garage?" he asked. Lestrade shook his head, pointing toward the shot-out camera mounted on the garage wall.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," Anthea repeated.

"No," said Sherlock. "Go away and tell Mycroft to do something creative with his umbrella for me, won't you?"

"We are going to the palace. Your presence is mandatory," Anthea continued. As she spoke, two large men in dark suits climbed from the Jaguar and started for Sherlock. Behind them, Peter Lutton collapsed against the car, fanning himself, eyes fixed on the body.

John stepped between Sherlock and the well-dressed goons, but Lestrade intervened to defuse the situation.

"Oh, go on then. Nothing more to do here anyway. Call me when you have a chance and let me know your thoughts," he said.

"Don't bother," Sherlock bit out at Anthea. "I'll tell him what he can do with his umbrella and his demands myself." Sherlock rose from his position next to the body and stomped off toward the car. John hesitated.

"You too, Dr. Watson," Anthea said.

"Can I tell Mycroft what he can do with his orders too?" asked John facetiously. Anthea just smiled and led the way to the car.

"Who the hell is Mycroft? And how does he get to tell Sherlock where to go like that?" asked Anderson, sidling up to Lestrade.

"He's Sherlock's big brother. As well as the man who runs most everything in England, to hear Sherlock tell it. Not someone you'd want to cross, though Sherlock does his best to try." Lestrade watched the Jaguar pull away then turned back to Anderson. "But I run this show, and I say back to work!" he barked at the surrounding crowd of police who'd stopped to watch the showdown.

As the officers bagged up the body of Christopher Cullen, a small dark-haired woman pulled her head back around the corner and disappeared into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

"Now, I'll be the Queen," said Peter Lutton.

Sherlock turned to John, his face a picture of incredulity and pleading. The former because the man had just handed him the easiest comeback in recent memory. The latter because, no matter how overwhelming the temptation, he'd promised John not to abuse Lutton. It was a hard won promise that had taken the entire length of the drive to Buckingham Palace to extract. But surely John himself couldn't resist such a tailor-made opportunity.

But resist he did—with a shake of his head, John shut him down. Sherlock sighed deeply. They were into the second half hour of play-acting his unavoidable meeting with Her Majesty. Sherlock's patience had evaporated within minutes of arriving in the Queen's Gallery and seeing Mycroft smugly installed in a chair. Having arranged the rehearsal, he'd wasted no time arriving for the spectacle of Sherlock being ordered about by a fussy little man in a bow tie.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," Lutton continued. "You will not under any circumstances touch the Queen unless she first extends her hand to you."

"Who'll keep her from touching me?" muttered Sherlock. Lutton extended his hand and Sherlock eyed it like a dead fish. He glared at Lutton until the hand was withdrawn, John having said nothing about _non-verbal_ attacks.

"And you'll address her first as 'Your Majesty', _nothing_ else," Lutton warned, remembering all too well the verbal lashing Sherlock was capable of. "After the first meeting, you will refer to her only as 'ma'am', and then only if spoken to."

Sherlock contined to glare. Lutton was slowly acquiring a measure of immunity to Sherlock's shenanigans so was able to ignore him and continue his instructions.

"At the start, you'll be introduced by the protocol officer. You will respond as we've discussed, then introduce your companion."

Sherlock's frostiness thawed as he looked to John. The idea that he wouldn't have to endure the pain of the meeting without John as a backup cheered him considerably.

"She, however, will say nothing-".

Sherlock spun back around. "She?"

The answer came from Mycroft, who smiled more smugly than ever. This was quite possibly the most fun he'd had in ages.

"Yes, Sherlock. You will have a female companion. It is the most appropriate choice and will provide a buffer between the Queen and, well, you."

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to object, a door to the room opened. Janine Hawkins came in, smiling nervously.

"Sherl," she said, nodding to him. Mycroft rose to his feet to welcome her, the picture of chivalry. Sherlock crossed his arms, scowling at them. Just as Mycroft was a few feet away, however, Sherlock changed strategy. He inserted himself in front of Janine and kissed her cheek.

"Hello," he said, voice an octave lower than it had been moments before. Janine's eyebrows shot up but she allowed the kiss. The two had buried the hatchet after Sherlock had enticed her into a fake engagement to gain access to Magnussen's office, but they'd had little contact since. The deliberately sexy tone, therefore, was surprising. Surprising, yes, but also welcome, Janine thought. She'd never quite gotten past the idea that she had unfinished business with Sherlock, something involving fewer clothes and more privacy than present circumstances afforded.

"Ms. Hawkins," Mycroft said, eyes only rolling slightly at Sherlock's performance. There was no need for further conversation between he and Janine. They'd met at length to discuss and plan her role in the forthcoming proceedings. She was to be Mycroft's proxy at Sherlock's side, insurance against the kind of disaster which could unfold in his presence.

Mycroft was not unaware of the risks inherent in involving a third party. Janine could have her own reasons for sabotaging Sherlock, after all. She didn't know why he was being pardoned—and her imagination didn't extend to him committing murder—but she knew the stakes were high. Yet Mycroft was counting on her perceived soft spot for Sherlock. Although he couldn't begin to understand why, she was still attracted to his little brother despite his ill treatment of her. That, and the promise of enough money to fully repair the home she'd bought with the gotten gains of her revenge on Sherlock (commissions for selling lurid but fictional tales of sordid sex), should ensure her good will.

For Sherlock's part, he was just decent enough not to interfere with the payment he knew must be in the offing. He offered her his arm and returned to stand in front of Lutton, who resumed his role-playing of the Queen with relish.

"You'll bow after she greets you but before introducing Ms. Hawkins," Lutton said, then raised his voice the half-octave necessary to make it sound more womanly.

"Mr. Holmes," he trilled. Sherlock didn't budge until Janine pinched him hard. In response, he inclined his head slightly. "And your lovely companion is?"

"Janine Hawkins," Sherlock replied. He looked her direction and smiled wolfishly. She quickly scanned his body with her eyes in response. Sherlock was dressed in white tie and a black jacket with tails over grey trousers. A slash of red cummerbund peeked out from beneath the buttons at his waist. It all fit perfectly, thanks to Mr. Lutton's tailoring connections. Janine smiled slowly, going a bit misty-eyed.

"Oh, for God's sakes," muttered Mycroft behind them. John snorted and leaned forward, elbows on knees. If the dress rehearsal was this entertaining, he couldn't wait for the real event.

"Ms. Hawkins," snapped Lutton with a little less femininity. Janine came out of her daze and curtsied slightly. Lutton nodded, satisfied, then extended his hand to Sherlock, who shook then dropped it with lightning speed.

"The pardon process will proceed after the introductions. Her Majesty will ask you if, well…" Lutton stammered a bit. This was the tricky part.

"She'll ask you if you are remorseful concerning your actions," he spit out quickly, looking away from the outrage which appeared on Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked toward John, who shrugged, then Mycroft.

"You didn't say a thing about expressing remorse. I don't _have_ any remorse. It was-" Sherlock stopped speaking at Mycroft's nod to Janine, who looked avid. She hadn't asked what Sherlock's crime was—heaven knows, it could be anything given his attitude to authority—but she wasn't at all put off by the idea of learning about it. Sherlock, however, had just enough of a sense of self-preservation not to spill the beans. Janine had, after all, been Magnussen's PA. She was among the last people who should know that he'd been murdered through a well-placed gunshot by Sherlock.

He grumbled a dark "Yes," at Lutton.

"Excellent," Lutton sighed. "Unless Her Majesty has any additional comments, the protocol officer will read the Order then hand it to you. You must bow again as you take it."

"Should I scrape too? Maybe crawl across the floor? Or would that be over the top?" growled Sherlock. He ignored John's _sotto voce_ 'grow up' behind him. With a sulk befitting a tired toddler, Sherlock bowed again but refused to take an imaginary piece of paper from Lutton. When Lutton continued to "hold it" out to him, Janine pretended to grab it.

Lutton ran his hand across his face. At this point, only John still seemed chipper about the goings on. He grinned at Janine and gave a thumbs up. She giggled.

"Her Majesty will pronounce you pardoned, then will withdraw," Lutton said. "You will stand until she has departed the room, then will be free to go."

"And thank heavens for that," murmured Mycroft.

John nodded. "I'll just be happy if we get that far," he said.

"This will be fine," snapped Sherlock. "I am not a child."

"No, you're not," purred Janine. Spotting the sour look which crossed Mycroft's face at her tone, Sherlock smiled and returned his attention to Janine.

"Shall we have dinner?" he asked, ignoring the choked sound which John made.

Janine smiled broadly. "I think I'd like that, Mr. Holmes," she said.

Mycroft wisely didn't insist that they all leave the Palace in his car. Instead, he simply nodded goodbye to them, adding "Get the suit pressed, Sherlock. We can't have you being wrinkled for the Queen. 11 am sharp here, tomorrow morning. I will send a car for you and you will _not_ be late."

Sherlock ignored him and held Janine's hand until Mycroft's car pulled onto the road. He went to drop it as soon as the car was out of sight, but Janine doubled her grip.

"No, you don't, Sherlock Holmes," she said. "I know that little display with me in there was for Mycroft's benefit, but you still owe me at least a meal." When he looked at her in surprise, she leaned in. "If not more."

Sherlock stiffened. "We are even," he said. He meant that she had taken her revenge on the fake engagement thoroughly in the London papers, making Sherlock sound like a sex-crazed Lothario with decidedly kinky tastes. "The headline 'He Made Me Wear the Hat' comes to mind," he huffed.

"I'm not talking about revenge, Sherlock," Janine said. Running a hand down his chest, she said, "I'm talking about unfinished business." When his eyes widened and he took a step back, she laughed.

"Oh, calm down, Sherl. I'm just kidding. But I am hungry. Shall we?"

Sherlock coughed then answered "Yes, I'm sure we can find a place that will suit us all. I know a-".

"Count me out, Sherlock," interjected John. "Fun as this has been, I have to get home now. You two are on your own." He grinned and Sherlock shot him a sour look.

"Fine," he said, leading the way to the road and a cab. "Fish and chips it is."

"Ah, no," Janine said, eyes sparkling. "Standing at a counter isn't my idea of a nice dinner. I'm in the mood for Italian." She poked Sherlock, then said meaningfully, "Carry away. At 221B."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible. John saw them into a waiting cab, laughing. Just before the cab pulled away, he leaned into the window and warned, "She's got your number, mate. Lose gracefully." Sherlock glowered as they drove off.

As the cab made its way through rush hour traffic, Sherlock focused on his phone. Sighing, Janine settled in to watch the city roll past the window, knowing that he'd be unlikely to surface until they arrived at his flat. Sherlock scrolled through page after page then suddenly grinned.

"Yes!" he shouted. The cab driver swerved slightly at the sudden noise, frowning into the rear view.

"What?" asked Janine, with only half an expectation that Sherlock would answer her.

"I know why he was killed," Sherlock muttered, returning to scrolling on his phone.

"Who?" asked Janine, beginning to feel like a quiz show contestant.

"Resale. Elegant…if you're dying, who cares about sterility?"

"You've lost me, Sherl. Who's dying?"

Sherlock finally seemed to remember that Janine was beside him.

"A hospital worker was murdered earlier this week. He had partially empty vials of cancer drugs in his personal locker. He didn't have the disease and didn't know anyone who does, far as we can tell. So why steal drabs of chemotherapy agents when there are narcotics around which could be sold far more easily?" Sherlock was on a roll and Janine knew not to interrupt him by attempting an answer to his rhetorical question.

"The answer is that they weren't just drabs of chemotherapy agents. They were part of a larger whole. Lots of little bits of drugs combined together could be resold at a far higher price than anything the odd vial of opiates could bring. That would take a far more sophisticated operation than this one hospital worker could possibly have run. He must have been sneaking small barrels of the stuff out of St. Martins—it's a research hospital, so it would have more cancer drugs on hand than any standard NHS facility. Probably the real counterfeiters got wind of his crisis of conscience and killed him before he could talk."

"Wait, wouldn't the hospital have noticed that drugs were disappearing off the shelf?" Janine asked.

"That's just it. They weren't disappearing off any shelf. Our victim was a janitor—he wasn't stealing drugs from the dispensary. He was carrying them out of rubbish bins in the cancer clinic. Each vial of drug used in that clinic would have been worth thousands of pounds. But each patient doesn't require the contents of an entire vial, and the hospital isn't allowed to double dip from the same vial for another."

"So the leftovers just go in the bin?" Janine was outraged.

"Yes, once a vial is opened, it's no longer sterile. So out it goes," Sherlock answered.

"All that money, just down the drain?"

"Or, in this case, into new vials. Ship them off with all the drabs of drugs collected to countries with fewer qualms about passing along bacteria to their cancer patients and you could make a fortune."

"Jaysus," breathed Janine. "If infections are getting passed along to people who are sick already…".

"They die. But they were slated to do that anyway, so…" Sherlock shrugged.

The cab pulled up to Baker Street. As soon as Janine stepped onto the curb, Sherlock closed its door behind her.

"Hey, what about dinner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, have to go. I need to find out if other hospitals are having a run on their rubbish. Mrs. Hudson will let you in—call for something or help yourself to whatever food is in."

"Food from that pigsty you call a home? No, thanks," Janine pouted.

"Raincheck!" called out Sherlock as the cab drove away.

"You bastard," muttered Janine. But she was smiling as she said it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I'd hoped to get us before the Queen in this chapter, but it seemed best to separate that out to the next one. I promise that we'll see Sherlock in white tie and tails soon. In the meantime, enjoy!_

Chapter 4.

"Three hours, Sherlock", John whispered.

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed back.

The two men were leaning against a wall defining the opening of an overpass. The area around the corner from them was a miniature tent city, for those residents lucky enough to have tents. The less fortunate made do with shelters formed of boxes, tarps and, in one tenuous-looking instance, mattresses tilted together end-to-end. This wasn't simply space under a bridge. It was an overlooked area of London known as 'The Jungle.'

Similar encampments existed under bridges all over the city. But The Jungle was the oldest of them all, a permanent address for an itinerant population. Turnover was brisk—residents sometimes drifted off to move closer to social services, but most were removed by overdose or death. Even near daybreak, it was a disturbing place.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, shifting uncomfortably in the shadows.

As per his habit, Sherlock didn't give a straight answer. Instead, he issued a command. "Stay here," he barked, then stepped around the corner into the dawning light.

The crowd went on high alert like prey sniffing out a potential predator. John huffed out a sigh of frustration. The Browning tucked into John's waistband evened the odds somewhat in their favor, but that didn't mean that he approved of its use. Walking into place inhabited principally by criminals and junkies was an unnecessary provocation even for Sherlock. John fought the urge to follow him, deciding to wait for further developments.

A bear of a man rose from the ground and moved toward Sherlock, who slowed his pace somewhat but continued walking.

"What the hell do you want?" growled the man.

"Not you," Sherlock said, his posh accent sounding as out of place as a bullhorn.

"Fuck off," the man answered, making his way forward by stepping over nearby blankets. Their owners moved away from the brewing fight. John pulled the Browning out and poised himself for action.

"Cath!" called out Sherlock, ignoring the approaching threat.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife which gleamed dully in the morning light. John started around the wall to take aim.

"Shezza!" responded a soft female voice. "Jimmy, stop. He's a friend," she said.

The voice belonged to a girl whose head barely reached Jimmy's bicep. The idea that such a wisp of a person could control the man-beast seemed ludicrous. But he stopped his progress toward Sherlock.

"He's a ponce, and he doesn't belong here," the man muttered.

"I know, I know," the girl babbled. "I'll take him away, but leave him be, Jimmy. _Please._ " The girl seemed to understand the danger that Sherlock was in better than he did. Jimmy hesitated, then shook her off.

"Nah," he said. "I'll take care of him." He raised the knife menacingly. Sherlock stood his ground, eyes on the girl rather than the weapon. John was an inch from daylight when Sherlock turned his gaze on Jimmy.

"No," Sherlock said quietly. His back was to John, but the comment was sent his direction. Jimmy's eyes swung to the shadows where John paused then back to Sherlock.

"I'll take care of any of your friends too," he blustered, but something in Sherlock's look caused his voice to waver slightly.

"No," Sherlock said again, this time to Jimmy. His voice was calm, his tone bored. The two men stared at one another across the foot of space dividing them. Cath took the opportunity to capture Jimmy's attention again.

"We're going now, Jimmy," she said, sliding around him to Sherlock, whose sleeve she grabbed. " _Come on,_ " she implored, trying fruitlessly to drag Sherlock along.

For a moment, Sherlock didn't budge. Then he looked down at the small girl and nodded. As he turned his back on the still lingering Jimmy, John raised his gun. But the precaution proved unnecessary, as Jimmy simply stood, knife hanging forgotten in his hand. As they approached, John could tell that Sherlock was smiling.

"You _moron_ ," he spit out.

Sherlock just shrugged, although Cath was visibly shaking. "You shouldn't have come here," she whimpered through chattering teeth. "It's not safe, you shouldn't have come," she repeated.

Sherlock didn't respond, instead handing her a folded piece of paper.

"I need to know where he worked," he said. The girl unfolded it, revealing a 50 pound note and a scrawled name. 'Christoper Cullen', the paper read.

She shook her head. "I don't know." Sherlock merely stared. "I can't tell you," the girl amended. "They'll come for me."

"You worked with him?" John asked, a few dots connecting in his mind.

Cath started, seeming to just notice his presence. "Yes," she nodded. "But I don't go there anymore. It was creepy and boring and-".

"And where is it?" Sherlock broke in.

Tears welled in the girl's eyes. Quickly, Sherlock snatched the money from her. He pulled out another 50 pound note, showed it to her, then stuffed both notes back into his pocket. "Clearly, this will be better spent on another source. Now and in the future," he said coldly, turning from her. John made a protesting sound, but Cath spoke again before he could.

"You don't understand. We weren't paid for our work. That was easy. They said that we were paid for our silence. And if we didn't keep that, they'd find a way of ensuring that we never spoke to anyone again." She gulped in air. "They know where I am. And if I move, they'll find me. I can't…" her voice drew out into a whine.

Sherlock shrugged and walked away. John hesitated. "What work were you doing?" he asked.

"It was stupid. Just taking stuff from one bottle and putting it into a bigger one. The hardest part was staying awake. But there was food and it was warm in the garage." Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Sherlock spun back around.

"Garage?" he said, moving well into her personal space. He leaned slightly over her until her back was up against the wall.

"Sherlock," said John warningly.

"You've been in this area for a week. There aren't more than a few garages here," he barked, leaning closer. Cath tried to shrink back but only succeeded in sliding slightly down the wall. "I can find the one on my own, or you can help me and benefit from this," he said, pulling the money into view again.

"Either way, they'll suspect you. Maybe find you. You can stay here and wait or take this and run." Sherlock stepped back, his voice becoming casual. "Your choice, but I need to know now. 10, 9, 8…" he began to count.

" _Sherlock,_ " snapped John.

"7, 6, 5…" Sherlock continued.

"Fine!" shouted Cath. She grabbed at the money but Sherlock held it above her head. "4, 3, 2…", the countdown continued.

"On Coker Street, ok?" she said. "Just next to the old Tesco building. There's a room where the work gets done and a place where trucks pull in."

"A loading bay?" asked John. She nodded. "It's abandoned?" Cath nodded again.

"You're a cock, Shezza!" she called out to Sherlock's departing back.

"Come along, John." Sherlock barked, striding along. John sighed and watched as the girl turn and ran, money clasped in her hand. John scurried to catch up before Sherlock reached the road. The mystery of how a cab had appeared in the back of beyond distracted John from the scolding he'd intended for Sherlock's intimidation of the young homeless girl. Still, he managed a "was that necessary?" before Sherlock became lost in his phone.

"If we stop the black market sale of tainted cancer drugs, John, many lives can be saved. That's not worth making a pickpocket a bit uncomfortable?" asked Sherlock innocently.

"Pickpocket?" asked John.

"How do you think I met her?" Sherlock responded, then dropped the subject. "I texted Lestrade, he'll meet us at the garage."

"Uh, no, Sherlock," John leaned forward. "Baker Street," he said to the cabbie.

"Coker Street," Sherlock instructed.

"Make up your minds, mates, it's too early in the morning for a tour around London," the cabbie pled.

"Coker," answered Sherlock.

John held his watch up in front of Sherlock's face. "It's nearly 9 am, Sherlock. You are meeting-" his eyes cut to the cabbie. "A very important person in two hours. Late is not an option. In fact, nothing but you being polished and ready you-know-where at 11 am is even a remote option. Therefore, swanning off to some godforsaken London hole will not be happening. Not today."

"Nonsense. You worry too much. We are merely going to make sure that Lestrade and his band of incompetents don't screw up a perfectly good arrest too badly." Sherlock waved away John's wrist. "Plenty of time to be ready for Mycroft's little show."

John groaned and fell back against his seat. He thought of various options for kidnapping Sherlock and dragging him to Buckingham Palace, but none seemed viable. Yet leaving Sherlock to his own devices wasn't practical. The meeting with the Queen was his one and only chance to escape the otherwise inevitable consequence of murdering a man, however vile he might have been, in cold blood.

Although Sherlock considered Magnussen's passing to be a just result of the man's extortion of people in places high and low throughout Europe, including John, no one had appointed Sherlock judge and juror. It hadn't been his place to mete out the death penalty, legally or morally. No court would hesitate to convict him and his own government had given him a suicide mission in retribution. If he lost the chance at salvation being offered by the highest authority in the land, it wouldn't come again. He'd be dead or imprisoned which, for Sherlock, could be worse.

John couldn't let him take that risk. While Sherlock busied himself with his phone, John texted furiously on his own.

The cab pulled into Coker Street and, per Sherlock's instructions, stopped a block from the garage. A BMW assigned to Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Lestrade was parked just ahead and several Armed Response Vehicles idled around the corner.

"Excellent," murmured Sherlock. He exited the cab, leaving John to pay as usual. When he was half a block from Lestrade's car, three uniformed officers rushed up. One grabbed Sherlock by the arm, while another placed his hand over his mouth. The third produced handcuffs.

Lestrade and Sargent Sally Donovan stepped out of the BMW. He waved to John, while she marched up to Sherlock, smiling broadly.

"We got a call that our favorite psychopath might be carrying an illegal gun to a crime scene," Donovan said happily. To say that no love was lost between Sherlock and Sally would be a gross understatement. Getting to arrest him was her idea of a prize for withstanding his frequent jibes against her character and skills.

As she spoke, two of the ARVs shot past and a third appeared from the end of the at the end of the street, blocking egress from the loading bay of the garage. Officers climbed out of them and charged into the building. Lestrade nodded to Donovan then moved off to follow them.

Sherlock struggled until he'd thrown off the hand over his mouth. " _I'm a sociopath_ ," he snarled. "And what the hell?" He stopped short as one of the officers pulled a Browning gun from the pocket of his coat. Sherlock stared at it, then slowly turned his head back toward John.

John shrugged. "One and a half hours," he said cheerily.

A short time later, an incandescently angry Sherlock was pacing around a jail cell. He'd exhausted his supply of curse words in English and had moved on to German. The guttural consonants made his swearing sound even more threatening as the cell door slid open.

John gazed impassively at his furious friend. He held up the morning suit and cummerbund.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I'll give you ready," growled Sherlock, launching himself at John. Being several inches shorter finally proved to be an advantage as John ducked the incoming punch with ease.

"Don't be a child," John's chiding was cut off as a second punch connected with his gut. With an oomph, he staggered back. Sherlock came at him again and John swung up, connecting hard with Sherlock's nose. Blood poured and Sherlock charged. John grappled with him as Lestrade and another officer pushed into the cell.

"Ladies, ladies, enough!" said Lestrade. "Cut it out or I'll make sure you both spend the night in here." The other officer pulled the battling men apart. Lestrade eyed Sherlock, who was becoming soaked from chin to chest in blood.

"Shit, John," Lestrade said wonderingly. "Not that he probably didn't deserve that, but couldn't you have waited?"

"Wasn't my choice. The git made me do it." John muttered, a bit appalled himself at the damage to Sherlock's face. Sherlock hissed like a mad cat and struggled to free himself.

"Stop!" roared Lestrade. His voice echoed around the tiled room and Sherlock finally stopped moving. "You," Lestrade said, gesturing to John. "His bloody brother is out there making everyone crazy. Go handle him." He turned to Sherlock. "And you—put the damn clothes on and get out of here before I decide to charge you."

"With what?" sputtered Sherlock. "You know that gun wasn't mine." Lestrade wasn't in the loop on the killing of Charles Magnussen, which was highly fortunate at the moment.

"Any charge I can think of—and I have one hell of an imagination." Lestrade grabbed the suit from John and held it out to Sherlock. "We'll get a towel in here and you'll be cleaned up and ready in ten minutes or, so help me God, you'll regret it."

John stepped around Lestrade and Sherlock grabbed the clothes, turning his back on them all.

As the car carrying them pulled up to Buckingham Palace, Mycroft stared at his younger brother in horror. Bruising was starting to form around his nose and his eyes. A small amount of dried blood rested on his chin. As Mycroft extended a handkerchief to wipe it away, the car hit a bump. Mycroft's hand grazed Sherlock's nose and John looked up from his hands just in time to see a drop of blood slowly drip from it. He and Mycroft watched as the drop fell onto Sherlock's white shirt. Mycroft moaned.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," began John, but Sherlock leapt from the car as soon as it came to a halt. He stomped toward the gates, brushing past a startled Anthea and Janine, who had been waiting for his arrival.

"Jaysus, Sherlock," said Janine in shock at his appearance. She looked to John, who simply shook his head. The group formed a grim parade into the Palace. Fifteen minutes to showtime.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of a series of small steps, his back ramrod straight. His suit was neatly pressed from shoulder to tails, with a sharp crease down the gray trousers. His shoes gleamed. He was the very picture of decorum-from the rear view.

The front was another matter.

His hair looked as though a small animal had nested in it. He hadn't had time to shave and a dark shadow of hair sprouted across his chin and lip. Worse of all, blood followed the buttons down his shirt in small drops, disappearing into the line of his cummerbund. Sherlock was a hot mess.

Across stood the protocol officer who would introduce him to the Queen. The man looked as though he'd rather swallow lye than perform his duties. Both men were studiously avoiding eye contact, although the official looked over to stare in disbelief at Sherlock from time to time.

A rail separated where Sherlock stood from the small gathering of spectators. John's back was also ramrod straight, a remnant of his military training. But his hand crept to his temples, rubbing over and over as the time to the Queen's arrival approached. Mary sat beside him, barely suppressing a grin. Janine sat at the end of the row, awaiting her introduction in fascinated horror.

After pronouncing himself glad that their parents were at least absent from the proceedings, Mycroft had given up all pretense of normality. He slumped in his seat, face in his hands. Moaning was out of the question, but he did allow himself a huff every few minutes as the clock ticked down.

The click of a door sent a tremor through the group. Quiet, shuffled footsteps sounded and Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them, Her Majesty stood before him.

It was a testament to the lifelong discipline and training of her life in royalty that Queen Elizabeth didn't so much as blink at Sherlock's appearance. She stood before him, expression serious. Looking closely, however, John thought he detected a ghost of a twinkle in her eye.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Not daring to look at Sherlock, the official at the Queen's side cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty, it-". The usual routine for an introduction was for it to include some indication of pleasure at making it. The man struggled, the words sticking in his throat. But his own training kicked in and he continued with only a brief hesitation. "It is my pleasure to introduce Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

For a moment, neither the Queen nor Sherlock moved. Then he stepped forward and inclined from the waist in a small bow. She smiled and extended her hand. He straightened and reached for it, then stopped before contact was made. No one behind him could see it, but there was a smear of blood across his fingers where he'd wiped his bleeding nose in the car. He hadn't seen it before, but now it seemed to shine as if lit by a spotlight.

"Your Ma...Majesty," he stuttered. Mycroft shot up, a look of pure terror in his eyes. Sherlock hadn't stuttered in front of him since he'd been in his teens. Something had clearly gone wrong, but what?

Sherlock's limited grasp of social convention suddenly weighed on him. He doubted that there was a set protocol for shaking the Queen's hand with blood encrusted fingers, but he mentally scrambled for the right thing to do. He came up dry.

Her smile never faltering, Elizabeth dropped her right hand and extended her left instead. Sherlock froze for a moment, then, picking up on her cue, he clasped her hand in his left. They both smiled.

John smiled too. That was a definitely twinkle in the Queen's eyes.

When the handshake came to an end, Janine stepped forward. "If I might introduce Ms. Janine Hawkins, ma'am," Sherlock said, his confidence returned. "She is my companion for today," he finished.

The Queen leaned forward as Janine curtsied. "Lovely," Elizabeth murmured. Then, in a quiet voice which nonetheless reached the spectator's gallery with ringing clarity, she added, "Yes, a very lovely choice of keeper for the day, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock startled then slowly grinned. The Queen nodded and looked briefly past him toward Mycroft before straightening again. Her smile broadened as well. Mycroft's return smile was considerably more strained.

Her expression becoming serious again, the Queen spoke.

"Mr. Holmes, we are here on the matter of a Royal Prerogative of Mercy Order. I have only ever granted three others of these during my reign, two of which were posthumous." Sherlock nodded. The most recent of the three orders granted was also the most well-known, one granted to scientist Alan Turing several decades after his passing. Turing had been horrifically persecuted by the British Government for his homosexuality and was believed to have committed suicide as a result. Both occurred a short time after he had been instrumental in ending the country's involvement in World War II.

Despite his well-developed sense of superiority, not even Sherlock believed that his achievements benefitted the Commonwealth as much as Turing's had. A whisper of doubt crept in—was this speech going to be a prelude to _denying_ him the pardon?

Several feet behind him, the same thought came to Mycroft. He hadn't just pulled strings to gain the Queen's consideration of a Royal Prerogative for Sherlock, he'd yanked on them-hard. But he knew better than most how steely Her Majesty's resolve could be. If she didn't want pardon murder or, which suddenly seemed all too plausible, wanted to give Mycroft a lesson about the limits of his power, she might well go through with the ceremony of a pardon without actually granting one. A chill ran down his back and he felt a cold sweat forming across his brow. The specter of Sherlock being led out of this meeting in handcuffs was horrifyingly real.

"The decision to set aside the judgment of the Commonwealth in a criminal matter is one which is extraordinary indeed and must only be taken in the gravest and most compelling of circumstances."

Janine snuck a glance at Sherlock. She'd known that a crime was involved—what else would a pardon be for—but still didn't know what his crime had been. This sounded far more serious than she'd imagined. Her eyes widened as an possible answer came to her. Had Sherlock actually killed someone?

Sherlock's view that she, like most others, was an idiot notwithstanding, Janine was far from stupid. Her IQ was considerably above average and her appreciation for shady ways of doing things not insignificant. Her mind spun as an unexpected fact slotted into place in her mind. She only knew of one high visibility death in recent weeks. Her boss, Charles Magnussen, had suffered a fatal heart attack a month before. No, surely not…that was a natural passing. He'd been a newspaper magnate, working under unrelenting stress. But the timing…she shook her head. The very idea was ridiculous.

Her Majesty continued speaking.

"I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that I am a bit of a fan of yours. Dr. Watson's blog of your adventures is quite entertaining," she said. John jerked at hearing his name and Mary placed her hand over his with a smile. But a worry hovered in her eyes, as she had seen the change in Mycroft's attitude a moment before. He was typically almost impossible to read, so the tightness in his features and movement of his hands in his lap set warning bells off in her head.

"But I cannot let my personal opinion of a Prerogative applicant color my decision in the matter."

John straightened at this comment. The penny had dropped that this meeting might not end well. He glanced at Mary, then at Mycroft. Neither's expression was reassuring.

"That is especially true in this instance," Elizabeth continued, "where the crime is among the most heinous which can be committed under our law."

Janine now stared openly at Sherlock, her worst fears confirmed. He _had_ killed someone, although who was still an open question. She fought the urge to step away.

"We cannot simply ignore what has happened."

Now Sherlock went pale and his entire aspect became frozen. He was almost convinced that he'd be taken away to prison again at the end of this debacle. His fingers twitched against the bite of imagined handcuffs and his stomach roiled. True to form, however, he didn't otherwise visibly react to the coming train wreck.

"That being said, _all_ pertinent facts and circumstances must be considered. And I cannot ignore the plain fact that you, Mr. Holmes, have been responsible for bringing justice to so many victims of similar behavior. I am aware of hundreds of instances where a perpetrator of serious crime would have gone free of consequences if not for your intervention. Indeed, you have helped to prevent as many crimes as you have solved, and certainly a great deal more than you have committed. The Commonwealth has benefitted greatly from your actions, which have largely been without reward or even recognition, beyond Dr. Watson's retelling of them." Although her words were lighter, the Queen's features remained impassive.

"I don't know what has motivated you to fight crime, whether it is out of a sense of integrity or if you simply crave the attendant excitement. Certainly your appearance suggests that you experienced some kind of adventure even before your arrival here today." Elizabeth smiled faintly. "What a life you must lead, Mr. Holmes."

"So, to your application for a Royal Prerogative of Mercy Order." Everyone present tensed except Sherlock, who seemed merely resigned. "After extensive deliberation, I have decided that it is, on balance, best for this country that you continue leading the life you have made for yourself. While I have the utmost respect for our nation's law enforcement, you have proven to be the kind of resource for them which we would be most foolish to do without."

Sherlock's eyes widened. John and Mycroft both blew out breaths, Mary grinned and even Janine, whose head was still reeling from the day's revelations, smiled.

"But," the Queen said, and the atmosphere instantly became tense again. "To justify this pardon, we need to be certain that the Commonwealth will receive full profit from the bargain being made today. To that end, and in view of the seriousness of this matter, I must insist that you be irreversibly obliged to serve the interests of the country as a condition of your freedom."

John's head swiveled to Mycroft. He didn't return the look, instead focusing with laser-like intensity on Her Majesty.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I am not inscripting you into the Royal Forces. Your bondage into service will wear much more lightly on you than that. No, I'm hereby making you an official and permanent employee of the Security Services. You will serve at their pleasure, acting to address criminal activity which occurs within the boundaries of this great nation."

Sherlock's expression turned mulish, which didn't escape the Queen's notice.

"You _will_ do this," she said, all semblance of friendliness vanishing from her voice. Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he wisely held his tongue.

"And to ensure that you do so, you will be under the supervision of a trusted member of the Services. Your brother."

At this, Sherlock cracked. " _No_ ," he breathed. A vague memory of where he was and who he was speaking to triggered a begrudging "Ma'am."

"Shall I tear this up?" she asked, taking the signed Order from her protocol officer, who looked outraged at Sherlock's outburst.

Mycroft went to stand, but fell back in his seat at a sharp look from Her Majesty. This battle was between she and Sherlock.

A long moment passed, probably no more than 20 seconds in total but, to those assembled, it felt like an hour. Elizabeth and Sherlock were locked in a staring contest. The protocol officer appeared to be the only one breathing through the wait for Sherlock's response, and he was beside himself. Janine placed her hand on Sherlock's arm, then withdrew it when he shook her off.

John couldn't stand it any longer. " _Sherlock_ ," he hissed. Neither the man in question nor the Queen reacted. Mycroft reached over to hold John in his seat, shaking his head. "No," he whispered.

Finally, with a slight slump to his shoulders, Sherlock gave in. His eyes closed, he murmured, "No, ma'am. I will do as you request."

Years of ruling over one of the most affluent and powerful nations in the world were not lost on Elizabeth. She didn't respond to her victory in any way except the one which mattered most. She extended the signed Order granting Sherlock his (qualified) freedom to him. At Janine's nudge, he opened his eyes, accepted the Order and, after a brief hesitation, bowed.

"Thank you," he said, with just a touch of wryness.

"You're welcome," responded the Queen, the twinkle back in her eye. "Behave yourself, Mr. Holmes," she said. Then, after a moment's consideration, she added, "But not _too_ much."

Sherlock smiled. He didn't care for being beaten and had little experience with it, but he appreciated style in power when he saw it. Besides, he was already thinking of the myriad of ways he could make Mycroft's life miserable through extended close contact. So was Mycroft, whose initial glee at the outcome of the meeting was fading quickly at the thought of mayhem-by-Sherlock.

Her Majesty withdrew from the chamber without further comment, the protocol officer at her heels. He didn't understand, but the day had been a wildly successful one. By recruiting a one man crime fighting tornado into the ranks of the Security Services, Elizabeth had obtained a dual victory—Sherlock would better serve the nation and Mycroft would better serve her, both with the goal of keeping the former from prison or death. An admirable outcome indeed.

As Mycroft's car pulled in for him, he turned to Sherlock.

"So, I suppose I'll see you on Monday morning. We start at 8 am," he said.

"Don't be an ass, Mycroft. You'll see me when I want you to, and not before," Sherlock growled.

Mycroft tapped the Order in Sherlock's hand. "Monday morning. Don't be late, brother dear," he said with a smug smile. Sherlock ignored him and marched away to a waiting cab. John and Mary followed.

As they settled into the back seats, the cabbie spoke. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes!" he said cheerily, waving the afternoon edition of the Guardian. Sherlock's picture was below the fold and a headline reading "Illegal Drug Scheme Busted by Sherlock Holmes." It was a photo of him wearing his much-maligned deerstalker. Lestrade must have alerted the press.

Sherlock humphed, but John thanked the cabbie on his behalf. He reached for the Order. "May I?" he asked. Sherlock handed the Order over after pulling an envelope from within its folds.

"What's that?" asked Mary.

Sherlock opened the envelope, whose upper corner was clearly embossed with the words 'Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth'. Sherlock's name was neatly written across the front. He pulled out a sheet of paper which had handwriting on one side. After scanning the words, he smiled and refolded the paper into the envelope.

His eyes met John's.

"An adventure," he said.

 _Author's Note: That's all, folks. If you'd like to read about what was in the envelope, let me know and I'll continue the story. Otherwise, we can wish Sherlock well on his new adventure—and pity Mycroft!_


	6. Postscript

_Postscript:_

Want to know what's in the letter that the Queen gave to Sherlock? Check out the sequel story, Pardon Me Too.

Enjoy!

Hatondog

C:\Users\st19555\Documents\


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